


Homecoming

by diablo77



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drug Use, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, One Shot, Origin Story, mention of depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-10 05:38:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12292446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diablo77/pseuds/diablo77
Summary: How did Meg find the body we've come to know and love? One-shot origin story for Meg's latter-day meatsuit.





	Homecoming

She could feel her smoke form weakening; she wasn't going to last long topside if she didn't find a host body soon. She'd seen a few old men, two staggering through the alleys with paper-bag-wrapped bottles in hand, one sleeping next to a shopping cart filled with aluminum cans, but those weren't her style. Sam Winchester's body had been a fun detour, a chance to experience something different, but that was more about revenge than anything else; she couldn't imagine it working out long-term.

Generally, she liked girls, and she liked them young and pretty and a little lost, like she had been when she was human, lost enough to trade her soul to that man in the suit in exchange for her foster father's death and her freedom. She hadn't liked kissing him, another man who looked twice her age, but it was part of the deal. It was all worth it. Seventeen when she ran away with no one to chase her, twenty-seven when the hounds came. She was ready for them.

She was cursing herself for picking this seedy section of town when she saw her. Slumped against the side of a Dumpster, the needle still dangling from her arm, but Meg could see that under that unwashed hair and that awful fake rabbit-fur coat, she had a Boticelli face and a perfect petite figure. There was potential there. Meg would have to steal a leather jacket for her somewhere, but she could work with this.

She hovered above until the girl's jaw went slack and her mouth dropped open, then she rushed inside. She stood up, brushing herself off, and plucked out the needle as casually as if she were picking a burr from her sleeve, tossing it aside with a disgusted sneer.

"Where does this chick live, anyway?" she muttered. She patted the body's coat pockets until she found a wallet. She yanked it open, scattering business cards and scraps of paper scrawled with phone numbers across the alley. She fished out an out-of-state ID card, skipped over the girl's name - she'd already decided she wasn't going to use it, whatever it was - and skimmed down to the address. "Cheboygan!" she snorted, tossing the ID over her shoulder. She rummaged in the wallet until she found a taxi receipt with a downtown L.A. address; it was just a few blocks away from the alley, so she figured she might as well try her luck. 

The building had a flophouse look to it, with some windows bare and lit by uncovered bulbs, some cloaked in ratty curtains or broken blinds, some boarded up. Meg tried the keys she'd found in the coat and the biggest one worked. "Figures," she muttered.

She climbed the stairs to the third floor and followed a dank hall to a door at the end marked 3G, matching what was written on a piece of tape affixed to the back of the other key. She could see right away that key wouldn't do her any good; there was a heavy padlock on the door. "Guess we know how you spent the rent money," she sang to the girl she still felt somewhere deep inside the body.

For half-dead, this one was really hanging on, she thought with annoyance. She thought back to the meatsuit she'd had the longest, the one she'd liked enough she'd kept her name. Only problem with that girl was her refusal to surrender the body. She'd been a sweet, well-rounded college girl on the surface, but the demon could smell the deep funk of depression on her when she'd found her. She'd thought for sure she wouldn't hold on long, but that little bitch was a  _fighter._ She both resented and grudgingly admired that about her.

Now in the dingy hallway, she grasped the padlock in her hand until the metal glowed red, then white, then split apart. Meg left the molten pieces on the floor and let herself in.

She waded through the scattered tangles of clothing and blankets on the floor, the empty liquor bottles and assorted trash. "Got to be something in one of these," she muttered, lifting and shaking the bottles one by one. She finally found a couple of fingers left in one, and lifted it and a dirty rocks glass off the table she found them on, then reconsidered and set the glass back down. She might be a demon, but she did have standards. She unscrewed the cap and slugged straight from the bottle.

She sifted through drifts of papers on the table, marked up with Day-Glo Hi-Liter, glossy black-and-white photos of the face Meg was currently wearing, taken at some point when it had looked less beat-up and hopeless. She snorted, tossing them aside. Headshots and audition sides. So Little Miss Catatonic was an aspiring actress, then. Of course she was.

Meg caught a glimpse of her reflection in a mottled mirror tacked over the sink. This body was definitely going to need a makeover, like she'd given the last one she'd spent much time in. She ran her fingers through the long, dark hair. "Get ready for the role of a lifetime," she told her reflection.

With a quiet rattle somewhere deep behind the bones, she felt the girl's spirit let go and leave the body. With a smirk, she lifted the near-empty bottle to the air for a phantom toast. "Good riddance," she said, and took another swig. She never did like sharing.


End file.
